


A Touch That Never Hurts

by JuweWright



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arthur Conan Doyle References, Books, Cats, Class Differences, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gentleman Draco Malfoy, Jane Eyre references, Jealousy, Library Conversations, Little Sisters, London, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Other, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, POV Third Person Limited, References to Dickens, References to Illness, References to harm to children, References to imprisonment and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuweWright/pseuds/JuweWright
Summary: When Draco Malfoy, a gentleman in Victorian London, finds he has a half-sister, he decides to take her into his custody. To make the move easier for little Livia, one of the workers from the orphanage, a young woman called Hermione Granger, finds herself as the child's companion. But Miss Granger isn't just any girl and Mr Malfoy isn't just any gentleman...





	1. The Only Free Woman

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
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> Dickensian AU: She’s lost everything, home and family swallowed by the dark days in which she lives. What could she possibly have left he might want?
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> **Beta Love**
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> Beta-Love goes to the wonderful nantai who also suggested to go with a Roman Empress as Livia's namesake <3 Thank you for doing this and I am happy to know you and think we should have coffee again soon!
> 
>  **About this Story**  
>  This story is loosely based on Dickens’s „Little Dorrit“ but I will not tell the same story that he told. Hermione is not Amy and Draco is very much not Arthur Clenham. 
> 
> The term “Mary-Ann” was used by some people for gay, effeminate guys in the Victorian Era. If you are interested in learning more about this, I can recommend the audible podcast “Victorian Secrets” narrated by Stephen Fry. I enjoyed this series immensely. I knew some, but not all, of the stories that are explored in this podcast beforehand, and found it truly inspiring.

The rain poured down onto the streets of London, pooling up in the dirty crevasses of the pavement, mixing with the dust and muck, then forming tiny rivers that ran down the lanes until meeting one of the barred entrances to the sewers. The city never seemed to be much cleaner after a rain shower than before, but it was definitely at its worst during. As Hermione made her way back to the Marshalsea, the hem of her skirt got soaked in the combination of unspeakable dirt and water. Her worn brown leather shoes were  soaked through as well, but her woollen socks still kept her feet warm. She knocked on the door and Fred, the young lock-keeper at the debtor’s prison opened a narrow door in the wooden gate to check who was outside.

“Oh dear. Hermione! You’re soakin’ wet. Come in and get yourself up into the kitchen. I’m gonna have somebody fetch you some wood for the fire in your room. Why’d you not wait until this weather stopped before returnin’ here?”

He opened the door and she followed him up the stairs. His red hair was a little too long and his coat and breeches had seen both better days and owners better suited to their cut. Frederic – or Fred as most people called him - was poor by any man’s standards but in the Marshalsea he was the only free man and thus somewhat aloof from the other inhabitants. He had inherited the job as lock-keeper from his father and had grown up alongside Hermione, who had been raised in the Marshalsea from the age of ten. She was the daughter of a nobleman who had lost all his money in some unfortunate event and had had no relatives to release him from the prison. Mr Granger and his wife had both lived in the confinement of the Marshalsea for a bit more than a decade until both had caught the typhoid fever a year ago and no power on earth, not even the care of their poor daughter who had not once left their side for a minute, had been able to restore their health. Their sorry souls were now with God, their bodies resting in one of the mass graves at the cemetery which were dug out for those who could not afford a cross or a tombstone.

Hermione sat down at the tiny kitchen table and accepted the tea her friend offered to her.

“I also have some biscuits left, I think,” Fred noted and dug out a tin box from one of the cupboards. “They’re proper biscuits with sugar and butter.”

Hermione took one of the cookies. They tasted amazing. Like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. She looked up at the lock-keeper and smiled through the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said wholeheartedly meaning not only the biscuit and the tea, but also the fact that he was one of very few friends she had in this life.

Fred could have thrown her out of the Marshalsea after her parents had died. After all, she was no debtor. But he had decided that if she wanted to stay, she could live in her own little room in the front house and come and go just as she had done before. She had been working ever since she was twelve years old as a seamstress and as a kitchen maid. These days she worked as a helping hand at the local orphanage. Mending what needed to be mended for the young children and teaching the older ones how to patch up their own stockings. She had never aspired to be anything more than a working woman and Fred liked her for her modesty. He knew she could have been much more. After all, she had been born a wealthy girl.

The Grangers had owned an estate in the countryside and lived a prosperous life in the better part of London. They had been well-known and well-off, wealthy enough to own three horses and a coach.

From a very early age on, Fred had noticed that Hermione loved to read. As books weren’t that easy to come by for a debtor, he had asked his father to lend her some from time to time. She had sheltered them like a treasure. When she had found out that Fred couldn’t read, she had decided there was no use in it, sat him down and taught him his letters one by one until he had felt quite like a scholar when walking the streets suddenly able to read all the signs and the headlines of the evening paper.

Sometimes he caught himself wondering whether she’d make him a good wife, but then he always caught himself, remembering that even though fallen upon black days, she was after all a gentleman’s daughter. And he was just the lock-keeper of the Marshalsea.

“Tea’s good,” he said, sitting down next to his friend with his own cup full of steaming brown liquid. “Takes away the damp and makes you all warm inside on a day like this.”

She nodded.

“Tea’s good,” she agreed.

Then she rummaged in her coat and pulled out a small package.

“If you haven’t had dinner yet; I got some chicken from the butcher. He said it’s too small to sell it to the fine gents so he kept it for me. We could make soup from it.”

Fred’s face lit up.

“That sounds like an excellent idea. Let me just tell one of the men to get the fire goin’ in your room so you won’t freeze to death tonight and you can start on the chicken.”


	2. A Gentleman's Duty

London was a bleak city. It was filthy, smelly and full of beggars – and also, in this part of the town, full of prostitutes who seemed to be very reluctant to take “no” for an answer. Draco Malfoy was tempted to use his walking cane and just smash it down on the head of the dark-haired vixen who had been following him for a full ten minutes now, lifting her skirts way higher than was appropriate, baring a pair of dirty white stockings on spindly legs. Her breasts were almost escaping the lousy shirt she was wearing underneath a tightly laced corset.

“C’mon, Sire! You looks a lot like ya need it, Sire. I can ask me friend Maggy to join us, Sire. How long’s it been since ya’ve had a gal?”

How long had it been? The fact that Draco’s body reacted to the unseemly looking wench spoke for itself. It had been very long. But he wasn’t insane enough to take advantage of the services offered in Whitechapel.

“It’s ‘you look’ and ‘my friend’,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “And if you don’t get out of my sight right now, I am going to forget my good manners!”

She gaped at him, mouth open, probably trying to process the fact that he had just corrected her grammar. But at least she stopped following him.

Draco’s day had started off badly and only gotten worse. He had w oken up because there was thick black smoke filling his bedchamber making him choke. The chimney had been blocked  and now, organizing a chimney sweep to get everything in working order again was added to his day’s events. He’d come down to the morning room to find his morning paper and a steaming cup of tea waiting on the table. Just when he’d decided the day could become a decent one after all, he’d noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head towards the window he had then been witness to an atrocious display of affection between his manservant and a handsome-looking tall youth, who had then disappeared through the garden gate.

When Blaise Zabini had entered the room with his breakfast, Draco’s stern expression had made the young man cringe.

“Mr Zabini!”

“Sir!”

“I have told you more than once that I will turn a blind eye to the goings on in your bedroom, as long as you keep them out of my sight. I can’t tolerate your behaviour, as it is gross and obscene. So please don’t let me be the spectator of any of it in the future again.”

Blaise’s eyes had darted to the window, and the servant, putting two and two together had blushed and nodded quickly, setting down the plates in front of his master.

“Will do, Sir. Much obliged, Sir.”

Draco sighed as he stepped into a puddle and got his good leather shoes wet. Damn that London rain! Blaise was a problem. Well, he was a very good servant. He was honest and loyal and he knew his way around the house better than anyone else. Draco had brought him over to England from his journey to Africa a few years ago and had never been disappointed by him except for in one single aspect: Blaise was a Mary-Ann and exceptionally bad at concealing it from Draco and the rest of the world. He’d be caught some day, that was for sure and Draco would not be able to protect him, if he didn’t want to lose his face in front of all of London’s upper class. He’d have to condemn the actions of Mr Zabini openly and make him leave his household. As Zabini had no relatives or friends with money, he’d probably end up in gaol for buggery or worse end his days at the gallows. He’d not last long in priso. He was a sensitive boy, well-read for a servant, because Draco had taught him his letters and allowed him to peruse his library. The rough folk would make his life hell for a while and then kill him off by accident - or purpose.

Blaise’s escapade with the youngster – whom Draco had seen before but wasn’t quite sure where and when – wasn’t the reason why a deep frown furrowed Draco Malfoy’s brow though. He’d received a letter in the late morning hours the contents of which had been – surprising at the least, shocking at the most, depending on how much truth its contents actually were based upon. The letter had stated in the words of a person who knew how to read and write but did not move in the social circles of the London gentry, that there was a child in the Whitechapel orphanage which might well be the bastard of the late Mr Malfoy, Draco’s father. There were – this the letter indicated – some clues that pointed in this direction. Enough clues to make it necessary to contact him now and have him see to the matter himself. Draco sighed. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do if it turned out that this child really was his half-sibling, but he assumed that he’d have to take care of it somehow, perhaps even take it in as his ward. He’d definitely have to get it out of the orphanage and into a proper home with proper education. It was a gentleman’s duty.


	3. A Strange Bird

Mrs McGonagall had been running the orphanage for more than three decades. She was a resolute woman. The stern expression on her face hardly ever turned into a smile and her patience when it came to disobedient children was very limited. But - and all the people working for her over the years could have supported this view - she was never unfair. No child ever went hungry even if times were tough. She ruled with an iron hand and a firm grip, but she ruled justly. 

When Hermione had first come to her looking for work, she had not asked about her background. Even though her threadbare dress and worn shoes had seen better days, the girl had not come across as a beggar. So Mrs McGonagall had let her work under supervision for a week. When no objection to her suitability for the position had been voiced, she had taken her under her wing. Hermione was punctual and fulfilled her duties thoroughly; two things which Mrs McGonagall appreciated. And since she was happy to earn only a few shillings on top of her daily lunches at the orphanage, she was not an expensive addition to the staff.

Mrs McGonagall watched her now, as she showed a few girls how to mend a stocking while a light-blonde girl was sitting beside her, chewing on her rag-doll’s hand. 

The headmistress sighed, remembering the letter she had sent to one Mr Draco Malfoy the other day concerning exactly this little charge of hers. She had done some digging to find out where the girl came from. She had been deposited at the orphanage by a nondescript woman in her twenties who had explained that she was the daughter of a gentleman who would bestow upon her sufficient financial means to grow up into an adult, attend school and probably find herself a position as a handmaiden. Indeed, such a donation had been made soon afterwards. Enquiries after the mother had been avoided, but as far as Mrs McGonagall could tell, she had been a working class girl, madly in love with the unknown gentleman and now - sadly - dead, taken by the last outbreak of typhoid fever.

Just when her thoughts had reached this point, the doorbell rang. She walked over to open it and found a young man of about twenty-five years of age standing on the doorstep. He was tall, but broad shouldered. His vest and tailcoat had been tailor-made out of expensive cloth and according to the latest fashion. When he took off his hat he revealed a bunch of white-blond hair which had been combed neatly and set off his grey eyes quite nicely. Mrs McGonagall was struck by the many resemblances between this man and the child in her custody. There was no doubt that a familial connection existed and that her research had shown her the right direction.

“Mr Malfoy,” she greeted him with a quick curtsy. “So good of you to come.”

She showed him into the small parlour and offered him a cup of tea which he accepted gracefully. Then she sat down opposite him at the tiny wooden table.

“I was surprised to receive your letter and even more surprised by the contents therein,” said Mr Malfoy. “Are you absolutely sure that you are not mistaken? This girl is really my father’s daughter?”

Mrs McGonagall sipped from her teacup before she answered.

“I would not have contacted you if the evidence had not been overwhelming. There was some doubt left of course. It might have been coincidental that your father has been donating money to this institution under his own name since the child was brought here and that his donations were carried out through the same bank as the one which was originally made for the child. But I have to admit, Sir, and you’ll understand why I say this in a minute, that all my doubts have been dispersed the moment you showed up.”

The young gentleman frowned.

“Is it possible to see the child?” he enquired.

Mrs McGonagall nodded and stood up, walking briskly back to where Miss Granger was teaching the children.

“Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to join us with little Livia?” she asked. 

 

~*~

 

Draco could not help but stare when a young woman entered the room, a child at her side who looked every inch a Malfoy. The girl was light skinned, her hair was almost white, her eyes had a slightly blue tinge even though they seemed grey at first sight. She was still very young, six years old at most, but he believed he could see some of his father’s features in hers: the high forehead, the shape of her nose and brows. 

“Say good day to the gentleman, Livia!” the young woman demanded and the child followed suit, greeting him with a very high-pitched voice, before it quickly hid its face.

He sighed and turned towards Mrs McGonagall again.

“I think you are right about her origins” he said. “I feel it is my duty to take her into my care then. I was prepared to tell you you were mistaken and that it is impossible the child is my half-sister but - I don’t think there is any possibility to deny she is a Malfoy. She should grow up like one. She should live with me. I have no idea how to handle children, but I will get someone to care for her.”

The girl had listened to his words, turned around quickly, shot him a defiant glance and then attached herself even more firmly to the woman who was holding her. In the next few minutes it became obvious they would never coax the child into just walking out of the door with this strange man it had just met. Draco had to admit that this was sensible on the child’s side even if it was inconvenient. Mrs McGonagall came up with an intermediate solution. Miss Granger would tag along and have the child see her future home and they would ease her in over the course of the week. 

Draco called down a carriage and let the young woman and Livia climb in first before he sat down opposite them. They passed the journey in an awkward silence. Draco didn’t quite know what to say neither to the child nor to Miss Granger and custom made it impossible for the woman to start a conversation with someone so much higher up in society than herself.

They arrived at the house a good twenty minutes later - with the traffic these days one hardly saved any time going by coach in comparison to walking - and Draco led them up to the front door. The girl’s eyes widened as she took in the splendour of the front yard, the size of the house and how well it was kept. As she stepped over the threshold, she finally broke her silence.

“Is this your home, Sir?”

Draco nodded.

“My home and yours, if you think you might like it here. You can call me Draco. As it turns out you are my baby sister and it would be strange if you kept calling me Sir.”

Livia nodded and looked the hallway up and down with a scrutinising expression on her face. She took in every detail and then nodded. 

“It is nice” she declared. “Let’s see the other rooms!”

Miss Granger suppressed a chuckle next to him.

“I apologize, Sir” she said. “She’s still young and has much to learn about how to talk to her superiors.”

Draco lifted a brow, the corners of his mouth curling into a half-smile.

“The funny thing is, Miss Granger: I’m not her superior. Well, marginally, because I am older than her. And also perhaps, because I am the legitimate child while she’s the bastard. But by any other definition, she’s my sister and will be raised as my equal.”

 

~*~

 

Hermione nodded. The girl had lost her insecurity and was now running ahead, exploring room after room of the town house. It was interesting to see how quickly she adapted to the idea of being Mr Malfoy’s sister. She just seemed to shrug and accept the fact without giving it any further thought. It was admirable.

Mr Malfoy was a gentleman who had inherited this house and two country homes with extensive lands from his father. Livia did not pose any financial burden on him and he did not seem to hate children, which was reassuring. Of course he would need a nurse for the girl and in time a governess who could teach her how to read and write and draw and become an accomplished little lady. Hermione had seen enough of the child to know that she was bright enough to pick up more than one language. And she was already showing some musical talent which could be applied to learning to play the pianoforte.

It was a relief to see the future open up to this young girl, to see that she would have everything Hermione could never have and would never dare to ask for. She would grow up sheltered, happy and probably spoiled and when she was old enough she’d be a beauty and much sought after by all the gentlemen in town. She was wealthy and beautiful enough to marry for love or not at all if she wished so. Being accepted by Mr Malfoy as his sister was the best thing that could have happened to her.

“What is behind this door?” the girl asked eagerly, pointing at an oak door on the first floor of the house. 

Mr Malfoy smiled down at her and slowly pushed down the handle whilst declaring: “The heart of the house! It’s not quite as big and impressive as the libraries in my country estates, but it’s got a good collection of books and it’s the room I like to spend my evenings in. You will always find the fire lit in here as I instruct the servants to never let it go out. And you will also almost always find one or both of the cats in here. They seem to have a knack for books, shelves and comfortable chairs.”   


As he spoke, he opened the door and led Hermione and Livia into the room. A thick carpet covered most of the floor. The shelves took in three of the four walls with the fourth wall sporting a massive mantlepiece in front of which two armchairs and a small tea table had been positioned. A heavy wooden desk stood in one corner, piled with papers and several leather bound volumes in between which a red cat had found a resting place.

Livia squealed when she saw the pet and immediately ran over to burrow her tiny hands in the thick fur. The cat opened a lazy eye - and started purring. 

Hermione’s eyes wandered over the shelves. There were so many books here! 

“You have quite an extensive collection” she managed to utter as she walked along the walls, taking in some of the titles on the spines. “And a lot of French writing as well.”

Mr Malfoy looked at her with a hint of surprise on his face. 

“You speak French, Miss Granger?”

“Seulement un petit peu” she replied. “Je ne suis jamais allée à France pour le pratiquer correctement. Et je ne l’ai pas parlée pour trop longue.”

His grey eyes fixed hers and she saw how he considered all the possibilities how a working class girl might have learned French. She smiled, knowing that he would not be able to solve the enigma any time soon. He gave a little bow and smiled.

“I expect you will accompany Livia here every day for the next week so she can get used to her new home. I’d be happy to refresh your memory of the language.”

“It’s a generous offer, Sir. But I don’t want to be a burden. I am just in charge of getting Livia here and back to the orphanage safely.”

Mr Malfoy let himself fall into one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

“Humour me, Miss Granger. I haven’t spoken French with anyone for ages either. Let’s converse a little over tea. You can tell me which books you like to read and I can see if there are any I can recommend to you.”


	4. Chimney Sweeps

Draco Malfoy’s daily routine changed fundamentally in the following week. After his regular breakfast, he only had an hour or two to manage his correspondence with the other estates, several acquaintances and relations that needed to be given the feeling that he even remotely cared whether they lived or died, whether Regulus had back-pains or whether they bred Malfoy and Black offspring now and were wondering when he would do the same. As soon as the doorbell rang, he was on his feet, but always checked himself and sat down again. He waited until Blaise had opened the door to Miss Granger and Livia. The servant then came up the stairs to announce their arrival and was usually followed by a whirlwind of blonde hair who’d either jump right at the cat - if the cat was anywhere in sight - or right at Draco - if the cat had decided it did not want to be anybody's plaything today.

Livia was full of energy and very soon the whole household adored the little creature. Blaise took her along to dust furniture and showed her Draco’s extensive collection of cufflinks and pocket watches. Mrs Weasley, the cook, had her help her prepare a pastry and let Draco know afterwards that if the young lady ever wanted to learn some proper housework, she was more than willing to instruct her. She was wild and open as most children are, unfinished and untarnished by the bounds of society. Draco envied her immensely.

When Livia set off with Blaise or one of the other servants, he often took the time to converse with Hermione whose company he began to enjoy more and more. An incident at the very beginning of their acquaintance had led to a substantial change in her behaviour towards him. She was less guarded these days and laughed more often, which was endearing.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Earlier on in the week, two days after the exhaust in Draco’s bedchamber had been blocked, Blaise had set out to look for a chimney sweep. The only reason why he had not done so right away was that Draco had been too busy chiding the footman for his impropriety and his foolishness not to keep his private affairs secret to remember telling him there was a problem.

The young servant came back with a boy in tow who was the personification of misery. The child told Draco he was eleven years old, but that was definitely a lie as he was about four foot tall and as spindly as a spider. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. When he was shown the culprit chimney, he looked mortified, but being offered a few extra pennies set out to do his duty.

“Miss Granger and the girl have arrived, Sir.”

“Send them up here, if you don’t mind! Boy, what are you doing in there?”

“It’s pretty blocked, Sire. Something’s stuck in ‘ere and doesn’t budge. Wait, I might… if I… ah… all right ‘ere we go!”

A rushing sound, followed by a thud: A dead bird, only a blackened skeleton with a few sad black feathers left of what once had been a huge crow, dropped into the ash followed by what looked like half a ton of soot.

“Methinks that was it, Sire,” the chimney sweep announced, his voice bouncing hollowly off the stone walls. “Comin’ back down now, Sire!”   


Livia came bursting through the door.

“Good morning, brother!” she squealed and hugged Draco’s knee. Her eyes followed his gaze to the dirt pile in the fireplace and in the next moment she was kneeling in front of it, examining the bird closely.

“Ohhh, what is that?”

Miss Granger appeared in the door, dressed in her usual threadbare garments, but with her hair in a different kind of braided bun than the last time Draco had seen her.

“Livia, are you…? Oh dear, your dress! Look what you’ve done! You look like a coal miner’s wife!”

She crouched down next to her charge trying to rub the black marks off her dress with her hands without success. Then, her eyes fell on the dead bird and the mountain of ash and a frown appeared on her forehead.

Right at that moment, a little voice was heard from the chimney again.The boy sounded much younger than before.

“I… I can’t move.”

There was panic in his words, the panic of a child who knows all too well what it means to be stuck in a chimney. 

“Damn,” Draco thought, “that boy probably lost some of his friends in this way.”

It was a common incident, chimney sweeps getting stuck and either suffocating or starving or dying in some other nasty way. He’d heard about it before. Some of his friends at the club seemed to find this kind of thing entertaining. Draco didn’t! 

His gaze fell on Miss Granger who was staring up at him with an unreadable expression. Her face was white as a sheet. 

“I can’t move” the chimney sweep repeated, his voice thick with unshed tears. “Oh God father and heavenly christ and mother Mary…”

Draco gulped, then turned on his heel towards the door.

“Blaise! Get the ladder from the garden shed! And a rope. I need a long rope!”

He turned back to the fireplace and knelt down next to Livia who was quietly asking Miss Granger why there was a child stuck in the chimney.

“Some children, children who aren’t as lucky as you, they clean the chimneys. They are small enough to be able to crawl through because grown-ups can’t.”

“And they get stuck?”

“Sometimes they do.”

“But… there’s no food. And no water… and it’s dark and dirty.”

“Yes, it is, Darling.”   


Livia’s eyes were as wide as saucepans as realization dawned on her face.

“Is he going to die, Miss?”   


Again, Miss Granger’s gaze caught Draco’s. Now, he could read some of her emotions. There was sadness, sorrow, exhaustion - and hope. A hope that he’d do the right thing, that they would get the child out of its predicament. 

“No, Livia,” he said calmly. “He’s not going to die. Because I am getting him out of there. And then we’ll get him some water and some of the apple pie Mrs Weasley prepared this morning.”

“Can I have some apple pie, too?”

“Yes, of course.”

Livia leaned into the fireplace and turned her face up at the blackened opening.

“Don’t worry. My brother is going to get you unstuck and then we’ll have apple pie together, and some milk. And we can go to the stables and talk to Arthur and feed the horse.”

Draco raised a questioning brow at Miss Granger who suppressed a laugh.

“She befriended your coachman yesterday,” she explained with a shrug. “She just befriends everyone. She has no grasp of status and social standing. I wish she wouldn’t have to learn.”

Draco sighed. In a way, he understood completely what the young woman meant. How often had he sat down with a glass of wine and had a conversation with Blaise almost forgetting all about their difference in rank until the servant brought him back to reality by addressing him as “Sire” again?

“I’m Livia,” the girl shouted up to her new acquaintance. “What’s your name?”   


“Archie,” the kid responded, the panic not as prominent in his voice any more. “I’m Archie.”

Blaise opened the door and announced he’d found a rope and retrieved the ladder from the shed. 

“What do you want me to do with it, Sir?”   


Draco was already halfway down the stairs before he answered. 

“I want you to lean it firmly against the wall and hold on to it while I get up onto the roof and get the boy out before he hurts himself in there.”   


Blaise followed his employer, protesting that it should be him who climbed the ladder, that it was much too dangerous for Draco to go “bumbling about the roof” and that he might break every single bone in his body if he fell.

Draco only hesitated for a second and fixed his servant with a steely gaze.

“Mr Zabini, the last time you climbed onto a stool to help Mrs Weasley hang up the washing, you broke a cold sweat and started trembling all over. I don’t think you are suited to this task. So do me the honour of staying here, your feet firmly on the ground and your hands firmly on the ladder and let me handle this situation. I am not going to be yet another gentleman who doesn’t give a rat’s arse if a child lives or dies.”

 

~*~*~

 

Hermione was surprised to see Draco immediately jump into action upon noticing the incident. She had expected him to be more aloof and cool about it, but he seemed to actually care about the boy. She let Livia talk to the poor chimney sweep a bit more. The girl was kneeling in the ash now, her dress possibly ruined for eternity. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Livia had a gift to say and do the right thing at the right time and that the boy had calmed down and was listening to all of her babbling.

Hermione walked over to where a glass door led onto the balcony and opened it. From out there, she could watch the proceedings. Blaise had leaned the ladder against the roof and Draco had put the rope around his neck like a yoke and was already half way up. He’d left his vest and tailcoat downstairs and had his shirtsleeves rolled up. Hermione noted he didn’t look very gentlemanly like that, if one assumed that gentlemen did nothing but enjoy life and sit on their bum all day unless they attended a fancy ball of sorts. His back was wider than it had looked in the suit. His arm muscles moved visibly under his white shirt as he pulled himself up onto the roof. For a minute he just knelt there. When he tried to stand, his foot slipped. Hermione’s breath hitched. She already saw him tumble to the ground, but he had caught himself and was crouching down again, cursing profusely. Then he deftly removed both of his shoes and threw them onto the lawn, before attempting to stand up again.

This time he didn’t slip. With stocking-clad feet, he made it to the chimney and found a stable position next to it. 

“Are you alright, boy?” he enquired. 

A feeble voice answered. She couldn’t understand what the child said, but the fact that he answered was well enough. Most of the time, the boys fell unconscious or had cramps in the confined space that kept them from both moving and speaking.

“I am going to throw a rope down. Can you get an arm up over your head? - When you catch the rope, you must wrap it around your wrist a few times and then you need to cling to it as fast as you can. And try to kick your feet against the walls so we can pop you out of there like a cork from a bottle. Get it?”   


She could see the strain in Mr Malfoy’s shoulders, the white knuckles of his fingers, the wide stance in which he leaned against the other chimney so he could pull with more vigour. Finally, the rope moved. She exhaled. Two minutes later, Draco pulled the boy from the chimney. The child looked battered but not broken. He was even able to climb down the ladder on his own. 

“Did Draco get the boy out?” Livia asked when her teacher stepped back into the room. 

Hermione nodded and couldn’t suppress a smile when the child ran from the room, announcing that she’d get some cake and milk from the kitchen then. She reached the landing right when Draco came in through the front door clapping the boy on the shoulder telling him to run on to the salon.

“Miss Granger,” he said with a smile and a nod.

He was limping, just a tiny imbalance in his step which he tried to cover up.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked worried.

“Might have pulled a tendon when I slipped on the darned roof,” he replied and pulled a face. “I guess it won’t be fatal, though. And I think, it can be cured by some rest and a piece of cake. Would you join me for tea, Miss Granger? I think my sister and our house guest have already started without us, so I can’t guarantee that there’ll be much cake left for us grown-ups.”

She laughed and took his offered arm, letting him lead her into the drawing room.


	5. Life's Purpose

“If I have to talk to one more woman who believes that teaching a child must necessarily involve physical chastisement, I am going to use my letter-opener in a different way than intended,” Draco hissed after he had closed the door behind the latest applicant for the position in his household.

Blaise chuckled. 

“Well, I guess most families would be completely d’accord with a clip round the ear if it helps the child to focus on its tasks.”

“I am not most families then. Livia is not going to be slapped or clipped round the ear by anyone as long as I am still alive.”

Draco balled his fists. 

“I think there’s only one solution then, Sir,” Mr Zabini stated, a crooked smile on his face. “You’ll have to employ Miss Granger.”

Draco sighed. He had been pondering the idea for a while now. But he’d had to ask himself whether he really wanted the woman back in the house for Livia’s sake or because he missed his conversations with her and had had to admit to himself that it was as much the latter as the former.

“I’m going down to Whitechapel anyways later on, Sir,” Blaise continued. “I could talk to her, ask her if she’d be willing to become Livia’s governess.”

“Thank you, Mr Zabini. That would be a great help. I will have company this afternoon so I would not be able to go there myself. Let me prepare a letter for her.”

 

~*~*~*

 

It was a sunny day and Blaise whistled a tune as he made his way down to Whitechapel. He knew the area well enough as he’d spent quite a few nights in the shadier pubs around here - those establishments where the owner did not care who you were and who you were with as long as you paid for your ale and did not bother other customers. It was in Whitechapel where he had first met Theodore. They had both been attending a small secret gathering where poetry was read and world-views were discussed over drinks and cigarettes. To the outside, they were a group of thinkers, dreamers, politically inclined young men, but nothing would have betrayed the fact that all of the men involved in this gathering did prefer the company of their own sex to that of women. Some of them lived normal day to day lives, were married, fathers even. Theodore was too young to be married yet, but his engagement to a wealthy heiress had been publicized in the papers just the week before. His face was well-known enough that Blaise recognized him immediately. He remembered how he’d found it surprising to find out that the attractive, tall, well-dressed Theodore should desire men. He’d found it even more surprising when the young gentleman had come over to him and started a conversation which lasted for hours and climaxed in the promise to meet again the next day. Their relationship had been friendly at first but had become closer with time and they had been indulging their fancies for about three months by now.

Blaise was thankful for Mr Malfoy. He had caught him out one night, dressed in full drag, wearing more makeup than the average whore. And even though he clearly was disgusted by the idea of buggery and made a point out of not wanting to know anything about Blaise’s freetime activities, he had been clear enough about the fact that he’d never hand him over to the police. He ignored his escapades and was willing to do so in the future as long as they stayed out of his sight. At the same time he’d told Blaise that in case he ever got caught, he could not vouch for his innocence, lest the name of Malfoy should be tainted by public humiliation.

His steps had led him to Mrs McGonagall’s orphanage and he used the misshapen lion-door knocker to make his presence known. The headmistress opened after a short wait. She looked every inch as strong, rigid and resolute as Mr Malfoy had described her.

“Mr Zabini,” he introduced himself. “Forgive the intrusion. I am looking for Miss Granger, Madam” Blaise explained, bowing his head a little. “My master, Mr Malfoy has sent me with a message for her.”

Mrs McGonagall nodded.

“I must disappoint you, Mr Zabini. Miss Granger did ask me for a day off today so she could visit a friend. I am not sure whether she might be already back home though.”

She seemed to hesitate, contemplating whether she should tell him Miss Granger’s address or not, then she sighed and named the place. Blaise’s face went white. 

“But that’s…”

“I see you know the place,” the woman said calmly. 

“Do you… why…?”

Mrs McGonagall shrugged.

“Miss Granger came here a few years ago looking for work. I gave her a week to prove her worth. She has been a great asset and as I felt it was a matter of no importance to me and of embarrassment to her, I never asked her about her history.”

 

~*~*~

 

“The Marshalsea?”

“Yes, Sir. I gave the letter to the door keeper. One Mr Weasley who told me he’d give it to her right when she came back.”

“She lives in the Marshalsea?”

“I believe she is no prisoner, Sir, otherwise she would not have been allowed to work. But I did not make any enquiries. I - it felt like it was not my place to do so.”

Draco sighed and shook his head.

“You did right, Blaise,” he said. “But I guess if this woman is supposed to become my sister’s governess I should better do some research about her origins.”

Half an hour later he reached the debtor’s prison and knocked on the small door which had been worked into the bigger gate. The tiny barred windows and the huge grey walls that seemed to stretch to the heavens made him shiver. How did a woman like Miss Granger prosper in such a dark environment?

A man opened. He was about Draco’s age, but the years had not been kind to him. His red hair framed a freckled face with piercing green eyes. Crows feet betrayed that he liked a laugh, his skin that he didn’t like alcohol too much and his slender figure that he’d thrived if there had been a bit more food.

Draco introduced himself.

“You're that man whose servant left the letter for Miss Granger, ain’t you?” the door keeper said with a scowl. “I’m Fred Weasley.”

He held out a coarse hand and Draco shook it.

“I would like to talk to Miss Granger if she is around,” he said calmly.

Mr Weasley frowned.

“She ain’t home. And even if she were I’d not let you talk to her. If you’ve come to tell her she can’t work for you after all, ‘cause she lives here, I’ll tell you one thing: Nobody’s to blame for their parents’ actions and yet almost everyone does it with Miss Granger. Her father was a gentleman, but she’s nothing now. Not good enough to sweep people’s floors as soon as they find out where she comes from.”

He spat out and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Damn fine woman she is and a good heart she has. But nobody sees it. They only see the Marshalsea.”

Draco shook his head.

“I was surprised to find out that she lives here, but… I have seen her with Livia and I think she would be a great teacher for my sister. Please, could you tell her that?”

Fred’s eyes looked over Draco’s shoulder and a strange look crept onto his features.

“You can tell her yourself, Sir,” he hissed. “Hermione, if this man bothers you, all you have to do is knock.”

With that, he closed the door again and Draco turned around to face Miss Granger who’d appeared behind him.

 

~*~*~

 

He looked entirely out of place in front of the Marshalsea doors. His tailored coat and shining shoes didn’t belong in this part of town. He looked surreal. How had he come here? How had he learned that this was her home?

“Miss Granger,” he addressed her and lifted his hat, bowing to her as if she were a lady of rank. “I’d like to offer you a job as Livia’s governess.”

Hermione stared at him as if he’d gone mad.

“A governess,” she repeated. “But Sir… I have no education, no references…”

“I have discussed literature with you, Miss Granger and I have found that you know a great deal more of the world than I would have expected from a working class woman. Livia adores you and I think you would be perfect for this position. I can offer you a decent salary and a room in my house…”

She shook her head. This was too much. She could not just cast off her old life with a flourish, drop all her old connections, leave Fred alone… Fred, who had always supported her through all her life.

“I… I would rather not. I mean, yes, I’d love to be Livia’s teacher, but I don’t want to live in your house. It’s… I…” she blushed. “It’s Fred… Mr Weasley. I… he’s… I’d rather live here and come to your house in the morning and leave at night, if this is at all possible, Sir.”

Draco looked at her with an inscrutable look on his face. He seemed to contemplate her words and then nodded.

“You’ll start work tomorrow morning. You will have lunch, tea and dinner at my house.  I sent Mr Zabini here with a letter earlier on. The salary mentioned therein should be sufficient to support you.”

Hermione curtsied.

“Thank you very much, Sir. It’s an honour to be trusted with Livia’s education.”

Mr Malfoy chuckled.

“Believe me, Miss Granger. It’s an honour to have somebody as capable as you to undertake it.”

With that, he turned on his heel and was out of her sight before she could get any order into her thoughts or even formulate a good-bye.


	6. Meeting Millicent

Miss Granger usually did not return home before Livia was in bed and very often the late hours of the day were spent with her and Draco occupying the armchairs in the library while the girl played with her dolls in a corner of the room or was rummaging through a huge volume of zoology that she had become fond of because it contained so many nicely drawn images.

One of these evenings found the woman exasperatedly putting down a book she had been reading and huffing vigorously while leaning back in her chair. Draco almost jumped. He wasn’t used to loud noises being uttered by the slender governess.

“What is it, Miss Granger?”

“This book! I know people like it and it’s supposed to be one of Mr Dickens masterpieces. But…” she waved her hand in frustration. “There’s not a single solitary character that I like in this. They are all just terrible!”

Draco raised a brow.

“I remember you enjoyed ‘Little Dorrit’,” he noted. 

“Yes, and ‘Oliver Twist’ was a neat read. I even read some of that to Livia. But this…” she shot a look at the small volume which spoke of such fierce disgust that Draco was surprised it didn’t incind the paper.

“A lot of people are intrigued by the character of Mr Carton.”

“He’s the only person in there with half of a character. Lucie’s just annoying and Darnay gives me the creeps.”

Draco chuckled. He liked teasing her. She was so easily teased and she felt so strongly with such open and raw emotion about little things such as books.

“I’d recommend you don’t read the next work of his,” he said. “I actually found ‘Great Expectations’ even less bearable than ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and I already had to force myself through the latter one.”

Miss Granger exhaled and a smile appeared on her lips.

“Thank goodness you didn’t like it either. I would have been forced to think less highly of you if you had told me you enjoyed this story.”

Draco laughed and stood up, holding his hand up with palm out.

“I swear by my family’s honour that I absolutely despised ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and am pretty convinced that Mr Dickens has lost a great deal of wit in comparison to his older works.”

He was about to sit down again, then had an idea and quickly walked over to his desk retrieving a newspaper that was lying on top of a pile of unfinished letters. Then he pulled some newspaper clippings from a drawer which he quickly filed through checking them for integrity.

“I have recently become quite addicted to the stories of this Conan Doyle chap. He writes about a detective. It’s not like it’s literary gold, but it’s hugely entertaining. Here… these are the installments for the first story. Let me know what you think. You can take them home, read them over breakfast the way I do. I think coffee is an elementary part of this enjoyment.”

He sighed.

“Which makes me remember that tomorrow will not be an enjoyable day. I think I managed to push it far enough from my mind to forget all about it otherwise I’d have told you earlier: My aunt Bellatrix will be visiting tomorrow. She’s - very different from my mother. You will find her an exhausting personality. But she’s family and so I am forced to entertain her and her young friend - I think her name was Miriam or Millie or something like that, I’d have to check the letter again to be sure. I half wish there’d be a sudden outbreak of typhoid fever to keep them away, but I don’t see that happening.”

Now Miss Granger was the one to chuckle.

“You will be here for the day, won’t you?” Draco employed “I mean, you will be here to teach Livia and I can come in and talk to you in case I am in need of somebody saying sensible things for a change?”

“Your aunt sounds like a caricature. She can’t well be that bad.”

 

~*~*~

 

Oh yes, she could. Bellatrix Lestrange was every inch as bad as Draco had remembered her. She entered the house wearing a skirt with so many ruffles that it almost didn’t fit through the door. Her hair-do was exaggerated in both width and height and she had lately been at the beauty salon and looked like a marble statue whose face was slowly crumpling.

In her wake followed the “young friend” Millicent - Draco had re-read the letter to be able to address the stranger properly. She had already passed the bloom of youth and he estimated her to be about his own age. She wore a dress that resembled Bellatrix’s. Instead of turning her into an imposing figure, it only underlined her chubbiness. Draco had many friends who preferred a woman to have some flesh on her, but if he felt anything when looking at her two huge arguments - which looked even bigger due to the tightly laced corset she was wearing - and her general mass, it was a sense of intimidation. She was a freight train and he was a deer that had accidentally stepped onto the rails at the entirely wrong time.

As he led the two ladies into the drawing room, he overheard his aunt’s comments about the furniture in the house - which was ‘horribly out of date’ and ‘should be replaced by something more modern’ if he wanted to impress anyone. When she noticed he didn’t react to the slights, she decided to change the subject to his clothing, berating him that nobody wore a frock coat any more and that he should drop the Beau Brummel references and turn down his shirt collars. Millicent giggled and managed to say that she thought even though Draco’s dress-sense was old-fashioned, he still looked good in his suit. 

“My tailor is a genius. He manages to make my shirts and trousers fitted enough they look well, but I still have enough space to move,” he noted and then added “Only last week I climbed the roof in mine.”

As he had predicted there followed a long discussion as to whether his standing as a gentleman shouldn’t have kept him from handling the chimney-sweep situation by himself and who cared if his good-for-nothing footman didn’t like heights. He should have ordered him up the ladder anyways!

Well, at least, she had stopped talking about his clothes!

Blaise brought in tea and cake and Millicent explained she usually didn’t eat cake but this one looked just too delicious - and in the end ate three slices with whipped cream on top.

Polite conversation. He needed a topic for polite conversation! An idea crossed his mind.

“Miss Bulstrode, did you by any chance read any works by Mr Dickens?” he enquired. “I recently had an interesting discussion about one of his latest works and I’d love to hear your opinion about it.”

Millicent looked at him with a blank expression.

“Oh…” she said. “Isn’t he the man who wrote that Tale of two Cities story? I couldn’t quite keep up with that. There was so much politics in it, I found it quite exhausting, really.”

“Admittedly, Dickens’ works can be a bit dull sometimes.”   


“Oh yes, very dull indeed. But there is hardly anything worth the effort of reading it these days I believe. My friend Marietta recommended a book called ‘Jane Eyre’ to me. She told me she had loved it, but I found it so very dull. Like, there’s this romance, but then there’s the nasty woman in the attic and all is so very gloomy and strange and there are way too many characters one must keep track of. I couldn’t get my head around it.”

Draco tried to focus on his black coffee which he had dropped three sugars into - a habit that Blaise had once called disgusting and which Miss Granger referred to as ‘surprising’ because she had not expected him to have a sweet tooth. The day after she had found out, she had brought some sugary pastries with almond-fillings along, telling him she knew a baker close to her home who made the best pastries in town. After he had eaten one of them, he was willing to believe her. 

Miss Granger had found “Jane Eyre” the first time she had searched through his library and he’d seen her shed real tears over it. Her emotional response to the story had made his heart open up to her. He had wanted to take that woman into his arms, hold her until she stopped sobbing. In the end, he’d only handed her one of his handkerchiefs and ordered Blaise to brew another cup of tea for her. 

“I am surprised that this book affects you so much,” he had noted.

She had shaken her head.

“I am sorry. I must look really silly to you. But you see, she’s such a strong girl. She’s been treated so badly by her family and has known so many hardships, but then she finds a friend and a lover and a true family and in the end, she gets a happy and fulfilled life. It’s like a fairytale but better, because there’s no prince on a shiny horse, there’s no magic, there’s just her own belief, her faith and her strength. Isn’t she a remarkable character?”

“What do you think about Rochester then?”

“Oh they are very much alike. In the beginning, he’s convinced that he’ll never know happiness, because of his past, because he sees himself as a bad man, a man who can’t be redeemed, who should not be redeemed. And her appearance, her determination and kindness makes him re-evaluate his own life and learn to love truly and deeply.”

Her eyes, still teary, had shone with excitement as she explained her outlook on the story and again, Draco had had to cross his hands behind his back so he didn’t reach out and touch her. 

“I was told that you took in a child” Bellatrix said between two sips of tea and brought him back into the present.

So that was the purpose of her visit. He had already wondered what her intentions were - apart from throwing Millicent at him in the hope he’d take the stupid bint as his wife. 

“And again, I have to find that gossip is quicker than the mail if it comes to London.”

“So it is true? Who is she?”

Draco sighed and leaned back into his chair.

“Livia is a Malfoy. She’s my father’s unlawful child. And no, Bellatrix, I have no doubt that she’s of my blood. She looks like a Malfoy even though she doesn’t yet behave like one. She’s a beautiful and accomplished girl and I find great pleasure in seeing her progress.”

“So she does get an education?”

“She has a governess who teaches her all she will ever need to know and more.” He looked up at the clock on the wall. “They should come down here any minute now. Her lessons for today should be finished.”

As if on cue, he heard footsteps running down the stairs and the next moment, the door was pushed open and Livia sped into the room, stopping in her tracks when she realized there were strangers present.

“Livia, this is my aunt Bellatrix Lestrange and the young woman over there is Miss Millicent Bulstrode. They have come over for tea.”

 

~*~*~*

 

Livia curtsied quickly. Hermione did the same, addressing the two ladies present with her eyes somewhere on the ground.

Draco indicated with his head that they were welcome to their usual seat at the table and Livia and her followed suit. There was some cake and tea left and Hermione put some on Livia’s plate before helping herself.

“You, my dear nephew, keep strange customs in your house,” Bellatrix said, wrinkling her nose. “I have never heard of any gentleman sharing his table with a mere servant.”

It felt like a physical hit and Hermione had to straighten her back to not bend under it. Draco’s eyes narrowed to slits and a snarl creeped into his voice as he answered:

“Miss Granger is not a servant but my sister’s governess. And as my sister eats at this table, Miss Granger is welcome to do the same. You may do whatever you want in your own home, aunt, but don’t you dare lecturing me on how to run my own house.”   


“Lucius’ house,” Bellatrix interjected coolly, “Your father bought this house. It’s his money you live on.”

Mr Malfoy laughed mirthlessly.

“You have no idea, Bellatrix. My father was an honourable man who had his wits together. He sent me to law school for a purpose. I have learned the trade and I have worked in it for quite a while now. I am not spoiled enough to believe I deserve to live off the wealth my father accumulated. A considerable amount of it will be Livia’s dowry once she’s old enough and some of it will be passed on to future generations. I also use some of it to support the country estates, but this house and everyone in it, is financed by my own income and I want it to stay this way.”

This took the wind out of Bellatrix’s sails and for a few moments the room was entirely silent. Hermione had not known that Mister Malfoy worked as a lawyer. She had seen him ponder over paperwork for hours, but had never dared to ask him about his business. It was not her place to do so. Knowing that he did not live off his father’s wealth made her think even more highly of him than she had done before. He was his own master, not relying on anyone else to make his way in this world. His defence of her had been sharp like a knife, even though he must know just as well as Hermione that Miss Lestrange was right: Hermione was by any proper definition a servant in his household and it was strange indeed for a servant to share a table with her master. 

“Will you be at the ball next week?” Miss Bulstrode blurted out, directing her question at Mr Malfoy whom she was devouring with her eyes.

A new topic was found. The ball was a private affair, taking place in the country home of one Captain Marcus Flint who had invited everyone of name and rank. Miss Bulstrode was very eager indeed. There would be so many people attending! And she had already ordered her dress! And she was so looking forward to the dance, because more than one gentleman had complimented her on her light footing.

Hermione did not know what to make of the woman. She was older than herself but seemed incredibly naive. When she kept going on and on about how many men had told her how gracefully she danced, Hermione tried to imagine the scene in front of her mind’s eye and failed. There was no grace in any of Miss Bulstrode’s movements. Imagining her caprices on the dancefloor as anything but a hippopotamus’s attempts at elegance.

When the door finally closed behind Miss Lestrange and her young friend, Mr Malfoy let out a sigh of relief.

“I hope this will be the last visit for a while,” he said. “I sometimes wonder if there’s any way out of familial duties.”

He turned around and grinned at Hermione and Livia.

“What do you think about a walk through the park? The weather is lovely and I need some fresh air. I have no clue what perfume this woman is wearing but I find it quite heavy on the lungs.”

Ten minutes later they were walking towards Regent’s Park, Livia skipping ahead of them with a skipping rope. There weren’t that many people promenading between the trees and meadows anymore, as the evening was already near, but it was still warm enough and the orange light of the sun turned the world into gold. Even Mr Malfoy’s rather silvery-cold appearance changed in this light to a warmer palette of colours. 

“I must apologize for the atrocious behaviour of my aunt,” he announced suddenly and stopped in his stride facing Hermione. “I hope you can forgive me for having her as a relation. And… I want you to have this.”   


He pulled a small volume from his jacket pocket and handed it to Hermione. She read the title on the spine and blushed.

“‘Jane Eyre’,” she said, “but…”

“You liked it so much. I think it should be yours. See it as a token of friendship - and gratitude, because you don’t only do a great job with Livia but you’re also an agreeable addition to my household and I enjoy our conversations immensely.”

For a minute it seemed as if he wanted to say more than this, but then he just resumed his walk and she followed him, thanking him for the book and his kindness.


	7. All That Is Left

“Luna asked for you the other day,” Fred said taking a sip of coffee. He had just finished the last “Sherlock Holmes” episode in The Strand and looked up at his friend over the rim of his cup.

“I wanted to tell you in the evening, but I didn’t see you.”

He’d given Hermione a key for the main door of the Marshalsea. It was a capital crime, but as long as nobody knew, they’d get away with it. Since she had started working as a governess, she often came home late at night and as she didn’t want him to wait up for her, they had come to this arrangement. Fred wondered why she didn’t just move in with Mr Malfoy. After all, the man’s house must be big enough to have plenty of unoccupied rooms. On the other hand he enjoyed her company. He didn’t want her to leave her room at the Marshalsea for a better life, because that would have meant she’d leave him. Even if she’d never love him, if she’d never feel the same way about him as he did about her, she was still his most loyal friend.

“I’ll go visit her later” Hermione said. “Haven’t talked to her in ages.”

“She seems to be doing all right these days” Fred said. “She didn’t look quite as frail and unhealthy as usual.”

Hermione sighed. She wished that Luna would one day find a proper employment. But she feared that her healthier look might once again be due to her having found a wealthy suitor. They kept her like a pet for a while until they suddenly lost interest and the girl was back on the street. Luna had once worked at the orphanage, but she wasn’t good at obeying orders and keeping discipline. Her own mindset was her biggest enemy.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Two hours later she was leaving the old dirty house in which her friend rented a tiny room. Just as she had predicted, Luna had found somebody to keep her for a while. She hoped it would last long enough to get her through the next winter. The young blonde woman had been struggling with consumption ever since Hermione had known her. One more hard winter that required her to go out on the cold streets too often would probably be her end.

Hermione would have loved to do more for Luna than what she was already doing. She’d left her some of her wages whenever she had been able to and now that she’d started working as Livia’s governess, she’d been able to give her friend much more than before. But she needed to be careful. This was Whitechapel and owning more than a few shillings could get you into trouble easily. She’d try to support Luna with regular small donations, but it still felt like it wasn’t enough. 

While she was thinking these bleak thoughts, she suddenly got distracted by a couple of police officers who were making their way down the street in a quick pace. 

“I saw him. Nasty bugger. Dressed up in full drag and walking along with a young chap who looked like he owns a phaeton and two horses. Down there.”

Hermione’s gaze followed the direction the policeman indicated and her heart skipped a beat. A man and a woman were entering one of the local pubs - and Hermione recognized both of them immediately, even though the skirt and wig and make-up hid Blaise’s features quite well and she’d only met the other gentleman once. 

She had spent enough time in Mr Malfoy’s house to be aware of Mr Zabini’s unusual preferences when it came to partners. She’d also caught him in the washroom where he had cleaned a dress after the washwoman had left and Draco had retreated for the night. He’d been so embarrassed, but she’d promised him not to talk about his abnormal behaviour to anyone. After all, he didn’t hurt people by it. 

A few days after this discovery, she had bumped into Theodore Nott in the backyard when he’d prepared himself to climb a conveniently placed ladder to Blaise’s bedchamber. Mr Nott’s family was almost as wealthy as the Malfoy and if his tendencies became public, it would be quite the scandal. A scandal that would cost him his status, his inheritance and probably his life. After all, there were high penalties on buggery. 

She turned a corner and quickly ran to where she knew the backdoor of the establishment was, bursting into the kitchen and pushing aside anyone in her way before she stormed into the taproom. One quick glance around and she’d caught Mr Zabini and Mr Nott who were huddled in a corner, leaning much too close to each other.

“Emilia!” she hissed, using the name she had heard Mr Nott use for his friend before. 

The lovers looked up. The panic in her face bringing them quickly back from cloud nine onto the dirty floor of reality.

“Follow me! Quick!” she demanded.

Without questions, the two men got up and she led them back out through the kitchen door and into a narrow alley, away from the policemen, away from the threat of discovery.

Her eyes were wide and she was breathing heavily, all too aware of the fate she’d kept them from.

“Miss Granger…” Blaise began. 

She shook her head.

“There are two guards around and they spotted you. If your life’s worth anything to you, get out of here immediately!”

Mr Nott stared at her, then at Blaise, who nodded briefly.

“I’ll see you on wednesday night, dearest.”

With that, both of them turned on their heels and vanished into the labyrinth of London’s backstreets. 

 

~*~*~*

 

“Mr Zabini! I have told you a hundred times that I have no nerves for your escapades and do not want to know anything about them! And the last thing I want is to see you scrambling through the backyard dressed as a woman!”

“I am sorry Mr Malfoy, I had not planned on coming back this early. I… I…”

“Zabini, you look a mess, you sound like a broken steam engine and give off the air of a chased animal. Please tell me I’m not facing a court-case with my servant being accused of buggery!”

Mr Zabini shook his head.

“You’re not facing a court-case, but it was a close call. If it hadn’t been for Miss Granger…”

Draco lifted a brow.

“Miss Granger?” he enquired. 

“She saw them approaching, Mr Malfoy, two police officers, and she burst into the pub and helped us get away.”   


“I feel like I don’t want to know who ‘us’ is.”

“You don’t.”

“And Miss Granger… did she…?”

“She was incredible, Sir. She didn’t even bat an eyelash. She’s known for a while, but she… she doesn’t care. Like, at all. I have never met anybody who reacted the way she did. As if it didn’t change anything. As if I was still the same person.”

“Well - You are the same person, Mr Zabini.”

Draco sighed.

“But I still don’t want to see you dressed in drag, so do me a favour, go upstairs and change. I’ll ask Molly to make some coffee.”

While Blaise was making himself presentable again, Draco cut out the latest “Sherlock Holmes” installment from the paper and sipped a bit of steaming hot coffee. It was just as sweet as he liked it. Before his mind’s eye, a brown-haired woman appeared, laughing heartily at the discovery of his ‘sweet tooth’. Miss Hermione Granger. She kept surprising him. He’d have assumed she’d go running for the hills if she ever found out about Blaise’s habits, but once again she’d defied expectations. Obviously, buggery was no infectious disease, but a lot of people treated it as if it were. There had been public trials enough to make the public aware of the problem, to make them learn to despise those who lived their lives like Mr Zabini.

Miss Granger was a gentleman’s daughter, but she was also a child of the Marshalsea. She had seen poverty, she had seen hardship and she had seen unfairness in all its facets. He sometimes forgot how much she must have gone through in her life. She probably was the last person to judge anyone. Her kind and open spirit forbid her to condemn anyone unless that person did something truly despicable.

 

~*~*~*

 

Blaise found his master standing at the window and staring out into the garden, his grey eyes unfocussed. 

“Sir,” he said to announce his presence.

Draco turned around and pushed his hair back with his fingers.

“She’s something, our Miss Granger, isn’t she, Zabini?”

The footman nodded, a half-smile on his face.

“She’s a great person, Sir. And she’s beautiful.”

Draco contemplated the second statement for a few seconds and then nodded.

“She is, isn’t she? In the beginning I always thought she looked a bit too thin, but she’s like a willow tree, she bends in the wind, but she’s almost indestructible and stronger than one would give her credit for. And she’s honest. Her eyes… I could spend hours looking into her eyes. They’re like a window into another world when they burn with passion…”

He stopped himself. 

Blaise tried to hide it, but he was chuckling silently.

Draco cursed under his breath. How had he not noticed this until now? How had he become so attached to the young governess? How had Hermione Granger stolen her way into his heart without leaving a trace? And how could he handle this fact now that he was aware of it?

Uttering something along the lines of “must see to the child” he climbed the stairs and entered the nursery. 

Livia was kneeling in front of her doll’s house and playing on her own. She was so caught up in her fantasy world that she didn’t notice her brother come in. She placed one tiny doll onto one of the armchairs in the living room of the doll’s house and the other one into the one opposite it. Then she took the doll that looked a bit like herself - a girl with blonde braids - and placed it on the rug in front of the fireplace.

“Should we read something to you now, Livia? - Oh yes, please Miss Granger. - What would you like me to read? - Draco shall decide! - All right then. What would you like me to read, my love? - You could read her the story about the princess and the knight in shining armour and how they lived happily ever after. - You mean like us? - Just like us.”

Livia took the two adult dolls from their seats and banged their heads against each other, making kissing noises.

Draco retreated noiselessly into the hallway. His face was on fire and his heart seemed to want to break his ribs and burst out of his chest. He was lost. He was truly and utterly lost. How had he been able to not see himself what Mr Zabini and Livia seemed to have detected much earlier? And how could he ever live with it?

 

~*~*~*

 

“Did you enjoy the ball, Mr Malfoy?” Miss Granger enquired as she walked into the library and found her friend lounging in his usual armchair.

“I found it incredibly dull and the company was atrociously moronic. I truly believe my cat has more sense than Miss Bulstrode.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“You shouldn’t tease the poor thing. After all, wit and cleverness aren’t what men of your rank usually look for in women. She has a pretty face and good manners and she’s healthy enough to bear you half a dozen children without blinking once. She’d never get bored and she’s already friends with your aunt, so she’d be welcomed into the family well enough.”

She sat down in the other chair and poured herself a cup of tea.

“I believe all of what you say is true, Miss Granger, but I have no intention to marry Miss Bulstrode and I don’t think I’ll ever change my mind about this subject.”

Mr Malfoy’s posture shifted. Where there had been relaxed nonchalance before was sudden rigidity and tension.

“I believe my family won’t find my choice quite as pleasant as they would have found Miss Bulstrode, but I honestly don’t care. I thought that my feelings were improper and I should not allow myself to indulge in them, because I believed that the gap in social standing and rank between us was too wide to ever be breached. But you are a gentleman’s daughter and since I have known this… You must allow me to speak freely just this once. I am aware that your heart has long belonged to another and that you are much too honest and moral to choose wealth over love, but you must know that I adore you, Miss Granger. I know that my confessing this to you means that you will not want to work for me any more. I will do anything I can to find you another position if you so wish.”

He stopped his ramblings when her cool hand suddenly touched his face. Her eyes were teary and her lips were trembling.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asked. “Have you been drinking? Did you indulge in one of the drugs that are so fashionable among nobility?”

He pulled his hands free, stood up and started pacing the room.

“I am as sober as I ever was, Miss Granger. And I beg your forgiveness for telling you all of this. It must come as a shock to you. But every time you enter this house, my heart beats a little louder. Any time I hear you laugh, I feel like spring has come after a long and dark winter. Any time your eyes gleam with passion when you speak about literature or Livia’s progress, every inch of my body yearns to pull you close, to hold you and never let you go, to cover you with a million kisses and to tell you over and over again how much I love you.”

He took a deep breath.

“I am sorry to overwhelm you with all of this. And I know it’s no use anyway as you’re as good as engaged with Mr Weasley… but…”

She frowned.

“Mr Weasley?” she asked and suddenly a smile appeared on her face. “You think I am betrothed to Mr Weasley?”

For half a minute none of them said a word. Draco had stopped in his stride and was standing in front of the fireplace looking positively lost, his hair mussed, his shoulders sagging.

“He… seemed very protective of you and I got the impression that…”

“Fred is my oldest friend and a dear companion, but I love him like a brother. There has never been any kind of agreement between us, Mr Malfoy, and there will never be one, because I am in love with someone else.”

Her hands were shaking as she walked over and interlinked her fingers with his.

“Mr Malfoy, I will never forgive you if you’re teasing me or making fun of me in this matter.”

“Does that mean… would you… Miss Granger, Hermione, would you… will you marry me? Will you stay in this house and live with me until the end of our days? Will you be my wife, Mrs Hermione Malfoy?”

A single tear rolled down her cheek as she leaned forward and gently brushed her lips against his, as fleeting a touch as if they had been struck by butterfly wings.

“Yes,” she whispered. “A thousand times: Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.”
> 
> ― Charles Dickens


End file.
